Friday, November 18, 2016

I had to write this whole experience down as it was so bizarre I thought if I didn’t, it might evaporate like it had never happened, which would be a shame.

Like many people who work from home, I am plagued, PLAGUED I tell you by scam callers. Usually the ones who claim to be called Bernard or Kevin or Helen even though they have quite a thick Indian-ish accent - it's NOT RACIST to think there might be a contradiction there although I'd be perfectly happy to be set straight on that matter - and tell me there’s a problem with my Windows computer, which seems quite likely, or would be if I didn’t have a Mac, which for Apple’s many faults (being actively evil on a global scale, continually trying to remove the star ratings on iTunes etc), doesn’t actually go wrong very often.

Either way, Bernard or Kevin or Helen seem awfully keen on my following instructions which a cynical person might suspect will lead to money being moved from my bank account to anothers' in a post-ethical manner that would make it hard to retrieve.
The thing is though, I can’t bring myself to be rude to these people, because that’s probably the best job they could get, and also I’m weak-willed and scared of confrontation.

So normally I say ‘ooh I’ll go and get my laptop’ and spend ten minutes bumbling about, periodically returning to the phone and saying things like ‘maybe it was in the East Wing, I’m sure I was there this morning’ then wandering off again until eventually they give up. This way I haven’t been rude to anyone, but that’s ten minutes they couldn’t trick my elderly nan into email them her savings, which would be difficult to be fair, because she’s dead.

Anyway, I haven’t had a scam call for ages, and I almost miss those crazy guys, then this morning, Ron called.

RON: (thick Bangladesh accent, but in your head so you're the racist one NOT ME) Hello, my name is Ron there is a problem with your Windows computer.

I immediately minimise the document I’m working on because it’s not like I need an excuse to not write.

We are now whispering unintelligibly at each other. It’s weirdly intimate, and I give in first, by giggling. Then Ron starts giggling.

RON: You fucker.
ME: (shocked) Ron!

More giggling from Ron.

ME: I'll be honest, I am stringing you along a bit because that stops you getting money from other, more vulnerable people, nice grans etc.
RON: (cheerful) Okay.

Bit of a pause.

ME: So where are you calling from?
RON: Bangladesh.
ME: Is it a big office?
RON: Yes.
ME: Are there many people in your office?
RON: Yes. Do you speak any other languages?
ME: (immediately) I speak fluent French.
(I don’t).
RON: What is French for ‘my name is’?
ME: That would be ‘je suis’ – NO WAIT! That’s ‘I am’. My name is ‘Je m’appelle’ something.
RON: Say, my name is (Bangladesh word).
ME: Ron. Are you trying to make me say ‘My name is fucker’ in your native tongue?

Ron giggles.

ME: I should say Ron, I don’t approve of your business practices, but I am at least enjoying this conversation.
RON: Goodbye.

There is a long silence. Ron doesn’t seem to want to put the phone down.

ME: We both know this has to end, Ron.
RON: I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING.
ME: Goodbye Ron.